


It's Coming on Christmas

by khakis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Oral Sex, Parent Death, Sex, angst but not really angst, embarrassing!, emotional pensieve shit, mostly good vibes and fresh bread and cats, there is regular porn but also a little cottagecore porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:16:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28332249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khakis/pseuds/khakis
Summary: “So that’s why we’re going to have company,” Hermione explained to Nova and Clementine, both of whom were jostling for space in her lap and seemingly unconcerned with Hermione’s plight.“Because I lost my mind and invited Draco Malfoy to Christmas. And he’s coming. Tomorrow. For Christmas, which is tomorrow. Draco Malfoy is coming to have Christmas at our house. Tomorrow.”
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 20
Kudos: 309
Collections: Dramione Favorites, The Dramione Collection





	It's Coming on Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> I was feeling a little extra desperate for some holiday vibes this year, and this was a plot nugget that got away from me. 
> 
> Imagine, for a moment, me writing about any characters who aren't just Hermione and Draco. Now let that beautiful thought go, because I am once again serving an extremely limited menu. Not beta'd or Brit-picked, all errors are mine.
> 
> Happy, merry, enjoy!
> 
> title is from River by Joni Mitchell, my favorite depressing Christmas song

The cabin was small, though veritably bursting with charm and comfort. The framework was at least several centuries old; its age was visible in the ancient ceiling beams, but the walls and floors had been lovingly refurbished much more recently. Wide windows looked out at the forest in all directions and drew the sun inside throughout the day to catch on the rich, golden brown grain of the floor. 

It was a neat-edged rectangle: one long sitting room in the front half arranged around the focal point of a beautiful wood-burning stove. It was dark green, and the cast iron sides depicted an elegant stag on one side and a mischievous squirrel on the other, standing out in sharp relief when the light fell against the stove just right.

The back half opened into three rooms, with a modest bedroom to the right. Only a big, comfortable bed piled with blankets and pillows and a small bureau for clothes stood inside, with two enormous windows that looked right out into the trees. A bathroom sat between that and the kitchen, which was large enough to move around comfortably and centered around a beautiful old stove and oven range that warmed the whole cottage when turned on. The shelves serving as a pantry were overflowing with a panoply of jars and baskets of fresh and preserved foods in every color imaginable, a controlled chaos of delicacies. 

Nearly every window had something set on the sill or hanging from its framework. Herbs in small bundles, tied with ribbons, drying like festive garlands as they hung from strings stretched across windows. Candles burned brightly, illuminating the condensation on the glass that indicated how warm and cozy it was inside compared with out.

The sitting room had a thick, soft carpet that covered a large swath of the beautiful wooden floor. A plush sofa and matching armchair sat angled towards each other, both of them deceptively deep and soft and very hard to stand up from once one sat down. 

Well-balanced stacks of books stood between the furniture, and there was a bookshelf against the wall anywhere there was space for one. Each set of shelves was different in style and size and type of wood, except for the two identical ones that flanked the wood-burning stove. Each looked tailor-made to the particular stretch of wall it stood against, almost impossibly so. 

Next to the stove, a basket of blankets revealed itself upon closer inspection to actually contain two small cats among the soft, handmade throws. One a vibrant, stripey orange, the other glossy black except for a splash of white on her belly in the shape of a waning crescent moon, and a matching one just above and to the left of her nose. They snoozed with their tails wound around each other, sedated by the radiant heat of the stove as the embers inside smoldered. 

A gleaming table carved from dark cherry wood sat at the far end of the room, in front of the biggest window in the house. It stretched almost from wall to wall and opened wide in the summer to let the fresh air and any particularly curious critters in. It was pleasantly fogged, two candles burning merrily on the sill. The table was perfectly sized for a massive brunch spread for one, which it had held many times. A fresh loaf of rosemary sourdough sat cooling on it, steam rising in almost-opaque tendrils toward the hewn rafters and carrying the smell of tangy, crusty bread with it.

Outside, the house was ringed by garden boxes and well-tended land on all four sides, though the back and front were laid out in a deliberately orderly fashion, while the sides favored robust explosions of flowers and grasses from early spring through the first frost. 

All of the remaining late summer and autumn growth was currently hidden under a thick, camouflaging layer of snow. It was deep enough after two days of nonstop flakes that even the taller boxes where rows of lettuce and carrots and kale and beets had sprouted were little more than small ridges across the pristine surface of powder. The four plum trees that stood several metres from each corner of the house were silent, cloaked sentinels in the dark.

The warm air inside the cottage, filled with the scent of fresh bread and burning pine, warped, hummed for a moment no wider than an eyelash, and then with a _crack_ , reformed itself around the shape of the woman who appeared suddenly in the midst of it.

The tuxedo cat’s head snapped up at the noise, groggy and startled from what had been an especially contented sleep. Her companion stayed motionless aside from the flick of one orange ear, totally undisturbed by the arrival. 

“Sorry for spoiling your nap, Nova,” Hermione Granger said, as she caught sight of one very disgruntled cat face peeking over the basket ledge. “You know I dislike apparition as much as you do. Count yourself lucky that you only have to experience the noise it makes.” Nova twitched her whiskers, clearly unimpressed, before commencing an extremely pointed paw-washing that _was_ vigorous enough to wake her sleeping companion. 

An orange head poked up from the blankets with an enormous yawn, and Hermione grinned fondly at the sight. She unwound a long, dark green scarf from around her neck, her curls springing out at all angles once they were free of their woolen prison.

“Once in my life, Clementine,” Hermione said to the newly awakened creature, “just once, I’d like to sleep as soundly as you do during any given nap.” She was carrying a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and string in one hand, which she set on the end table near the armchair and continued the laborious process of peeling back the multitude of layers she’d wrapped herself in before departing the cottage several hours earlier.

Nova, realizing Hermione was no longer paying attention to her, spilled herself over the side of the basket onto the floor, pausing to round and stretch her back in a perfect silhouette of a Halloween cat illuminated against a full moon. The small creature wound her way through Hermione’s legs as she finally came unbound from the last of her layers and collapsed onto the couch. She pulled a nearby pillow over her face, groaning into it.

“I hope you two are ready for some company,” came Hermione’s muffled voice, sounding as unsure about the concept as she felt. “I may have just done something very stupid.”

***

Draco Malfoy was unaccustomed to having visitors.

Both of his parents had been dead for several years. His father had expired in a dank cell in Azkaban, allegedly from a still-unspecified medical condition. Draco had never been given the chance to see an autopsy; he rather suspected one didn’t exist. He had made peace with the fact that he would never know the truth of his father’s death, but felt a weird stab of satisfaction and grief and guilt when he grimly admitted to himself that it had most likely been one full of pain and terror. 

His mother, he simply didn’t think about. 

As such, he lived in the Manor alone. He felt like a ghost most days, and stuck only to a few rooms that he’d managed to make feel livable, even comfortable. The portraits of his ancestors on the walls of the wings he never visited sometimes seemed more alive than Draco himself.

After his trial, after his charges had been dropped, before his mother had —

In those early days, as part of his court mandated “rehabilitation” (really a thinly-disguised probation), he’d been given a position as a Ministry intern. In a miserable twist of fate that was, in fact, likely quite deliberate and not fateful at all, he ended up working with Hermione Granger. Well, _with_ didn’t exactly cover it. Really, he worked for her.

And he’d been prepared to loathe it.

Draco worked hard to keep his feelings under wraps, behind the solid wall in his mind that he locked nearly everything of consequence behind. His first day in the Beast, Being and Spirit Divisions office had been a blur of orientation that Draco found, ironically, quite disorienting. He was fascinated to watch a bashful Hermione Granger, who met his eyes fiercely and blushed fiercely to match, explain to him where his desk was, how to file memos in the internal filing system, where to find fresh quills. He studied her and found himself unable to fully process the implications as she explained that he’d mostly be busy helping her with paperwork around Creature incidents and organising departmental meetings. She also showed him the corner with a charmed kettle and small selection of handmade mugs where he could fix himself a cup of tea. 

Draco had never before made himself tea, but he didn’t particularly feel like sharing this fact with Granger.

It occurred to him somewhere in the middle of her monologue about which floors had the nicest loos that Hermione herself was working far, far below her level. It was confounding that she wasn’t at least going out on calls to resolve Creature reports. 

The year and a half Draco spent working with Granger rapidly evolved into some of the most strangely peaceful days of his life. He spoke to almost no one else at the Ministry, arriving very early and leaving as late as Hermione did, eating only at his desk, thereby avoiding the worst of the crowded corridors and rude stares in the atrium. The work was easy, rote, soothing, and he liked sitting in a quiet office with Hermione, planning meetings and reviewing complaints and laughing about the way their supervisor Neil’s voice cracked when he was overexcited.

Yes, he liked being with Hermione. 

Hermione, who brought him caramel spice fairy cakes and chocolate chip meringues and delicate lemon madeleines and impossibly light pistachio macarons. Hermione, who baked when she couldn’t sleep and couldn’t sleep often. Hermione, who had an unexpectedly sharp tongue and dark sense of humor to go with it. Hemione, who made him forget himself a little, feel human and possibly worthy of something again.

He was incredibly self focused in those days, but not so much that he didn’t notice how Hermione periodically seemed to sink back into herself, looking exhausted and miserable when she didn’t think anyone was watching. He didn’t know what to say or do about it, but he knew how it felt. He started bringing her cups of perfectly hot peppermint tea throughout the day when she was in a low swing (it turned out making a cup was far easier than he’d imagined). He discovered it usually made her smile in a surprised and momentarily delighted sort of way, and that felt like the most useful thing Draco had done for as long as he could remember.

When Draco’s year and a half was up, Hermione gave him a bottle of Ogden’s Finest Reserve with a big green bow tied around the neck, kissed him on the cheek, and then disappeared.

As far as he understood, she had moved out of London entirely. She visited her friends with some frequency, though he hadn’t seen her after that day. Four months later his mother happened, and for a while Draco couldn’t feel a single thing, no less think about anybody else.

Now, he used what was left of his inheritance after the enormous chunk he’d handed over for reparations to invest in radical reforms and new enterprises. He’d been a founding member and ongoing funder of the new School for Early Education, which included a robust program on muggle studies geared toward children, though Draco’s name wasn’t known even to the school administrators. He saw Theo and Blaise every two weeks for drinking and cards, which was one of the only things still keeping him tethered to reality, making him feel like a real person. 

He read a lot. He’d been cataloguing and reorganizing the Malfoy library for going on two years now, a project he began in the wake of his orphaning. It required systematic planning, a fair bit of complex spellwork, and dealing with the occasional dark magic that made the inside of Draco’s mouth taste like bile and filled his nostrils with the stench of corruption. The motivation was in the reading. It could still sometimes make him _feel_.

Draco Malfoy might not be good for anything, but he knew many, many things.

He was most at home in the library, and aside from his bedroom and the long walks he took every day in the gardens, he spent nearly all his time in the stacks or stretched out on the supple leather sofa in front of a roaring fire. That’s where he was when his sole remaining house elf, Nipsy, appeared by Draco’s stockinged feet with a loud _snap_ , nearly knocking over his precariously positioned glass of wine. 

“Mister Draco,” Nipsy panted, her enormous eyes shining with the abrupt and dramatic change of routine she’d arrived to report. “There is a miss at the front door, asking for you. Nipsy told miss you was busy, but miss is not liking that answer.” The elf’s voice dropped to just above a whisper. “Miss says her name is Hermione Granger.”

***

Hermione hadn’t specifically been planning to go see Draco at all, no less in his ancestral home. The idea occurred to her out of the blue, arriving fully formed and with a strange frenetic energy that carried her forward — through putting on her favorite shirt; through applying two layers of mascara and after a moment’s hesitation, a burgundy lipstick; through bundling herself into her strata layers of wool and down — until it deposited her just outside the long, winding drive up to Malfoy Manor.

At that point, it seemed crazier to walk away than to follow through on the mad impulse. 

The Manor had an eerie, quiet feel to it, even from the outside, though the gardens were beautiful, clearly charmed to bloom through the winter. Hermione wondered if that was Draco’s doing, or a vestige of his mother’s legacy. 

It surprised her that she didn’t feel more frightened. The Manor loomed ahead of her, but in the December sunshine, the air around it felt more lonely and empty than ominous. She’d only ever been to the Manor before under the worst possible circumstances, had never stood outside and gazed upon it whole. It made sense that the bitter, combative Draco she’d met at eleven years old had been raised in this beautiful, daunting place.

A tiny, overexcited elf met Hermione at the front door, ushered her into a dizzying, elegant foyer, and disappeared in a tumble, presumably to find the very person she’d pretended to be busy only a few moments before. Hermione had it on fairly good authority that Draco was rarely seen out these days, so unless he’d left the country, it was a good bet she’d find him here. It didn’t particularly surprise her to discover that he’d been hiding away. She knew a little something about that, herself.

“Granger?” Hermione’s head snapped up, out of her reverie, to see Draco making his way down the enormous winding front staircase. 

He looked…

It was hard to tell, at first glance. He seemed fine, physically — still tall and elegant and handsome in a haunted sort of way. But there was something not quite right about him. Hermione had the strangest sensation that he wasn’t entirely substantial, like his edges might be bleeding into the air around him.

“Hermione,” Draco tried again when she still hadn’t said a thing to him. She blushed and started from her thorough examination of his face.

“Hello, Draco.” She smiled, faltered, looked down at her boots. “I’m sorry for dropping in unannounced.”

“Yes,” Draco agreed mildly. “Really quite rude of you. I might have had company.” A ghost of a smile passed across his features as he gestured behind him towards the rest of the silent and very obviously empty property. Hermione felt the laugh surprised out of her. She’d always been a little delighted by his dark, unexpected humor in their time as coworkers. 

Draco’s eyes were mercurial as he stared at her where she stood, still an awkward distance across the foyer from him. “Well, you’re here now,” he said after a long moment. “Is there something I can help you with?”

***

So she’d asked him if he wanted to spend Christmas with her. Because she didn’t want to have another year alone, and thought he might feel the same. She’d said this and much more, all in a rush — things like how she’d always liked working with him, how Harry told her that he supposed Draco might be as much of a loner as she was, how she’d thought about him alone in the Manor one too many times and wondered if he might like a day or two in the woods with a friend, with her — and watched his face as he moved through shock, brief anger, curiosity, amusement, uncertainty.

She wished she could pick the words up and put them back into her mouth. She wished he’d say something. She wished she could reach out and touch him and ask him to trust her.

And then, Draco Malfoy did the most astonishing thing: he said yes.

***

“So that’s why we’re going to have company,” Hermione explained to Nova and Clementine, both of whom were jostling for space in her lap and seemingly unconcerned with Hermione’s plight. “Because I lost my mind and invited Draco Malfoy to Christmas. And he’s coming. Tomorrow. For Christmas, which is tomorrow. Draco Malfoy is coming to have Christmas at our house. Tomorrow.”

Clementine stretched one hind leg high into the air like a dancer, and proceeded to set about vigorous cleaning of her arse. Hermione gently pressed the outstretched leg down like a lever until Clementine’s disgruntled head popped back up to see what the disturbance was about. “Don’t you look at me like that,” Hermione said, glaring. “You know we have a rule about licking your arse _on my lap_ , and the rule is _no_. I need your support right now, Clemmie.” 

Nova gently bit her sister’s tail, just to remind Clementine that she hadn’t forgotten the lap rules and therefore was the superior pet, and then they were off and away, racing each other around the cottage like two mischievous little demons.

Hermione spent the evening worrying, feeding the fire, and preparing cinnamon roll dough that she would bake in the morning. Her father had always made cinnamon rolls for Christmas, and Hermione used to love standing beside him at the kitchen counter and spreading the butter and sugar and cinnamon over the dough, watching it darken into a gooey, delicious paste. It was one of the only ways she could feel close to her parents on the holiday without inevitably spiraling into a black hole. Too many Christmases had been lost to that particular darkness already.

She loved the laborious preparation and process, the promise of pulling the rolls from the oven steaming and crackling with sugary goodness. Although she’d brought him baked goods from her kitchen before, it was nearly impossible to imagine sharing these particular buns with Draco Malfoy.

Hermione finally went to bed well past midnight, listening to the last of the log she’d put on the fire snap and pop as it reduced itself to chunks, then embers. By the time it burned away to ash, Hermione was deeply asleep, a small cat-shaped lump under the covers on either side of her.

***

Christmas morning dawned clear and very cold.

In the streaming sunlight, the rest of the property around the cottage was revealed: just beyond the cultivated edges of her garden, Kielder Forest began in earnest in all directions, growing wild and thick even in the midst of winter.

The house wasn’t as far from civilization as it seemed. In the summer, Hermione could walk 40 minutes directly south and come to the small village of Falstone, which had an inn and several shops, including a food market and bookshop where the kindly old owner knew her name and would put titles aside she thought Hermione might like, sometimes holding onto them for months at a time until Hermione could make another trek into town. Hikers would occasionally come within shouting distance of the house, though they never seemed to notice it or come near enough to stumble out into Hermione’s garden. 

In the winter, however, she apparated anywhere she needed to go — not that she went to too many places. No sense in trying to trudge through a winter wonderland when snow was sometimes as high as her knees and would invariably make its way inside of her boots.

Hermione knew that snow in Britain was unusual, but every year she’d been living in her wooded pocket of the country, she was inundated. Perhaps it was because she was so far north, or perhaps it was because the border of Scotland was only a bit further beyond her home, and weather sometimes behaved differently in a borderland.

Regardless, she certainly wasn’t going to ask Malfoy to find his way here by any means less than magical. Luckily her name still carried considerable weight, and her best friend’s carried even more. She had headed to Harry’s immediately after leaving the Manor. 

Hermione hadn’t relished trying to explain to Harry why she needed a last-minute portkey, but she asked him for so little these days and spent so much time alone at the cottage that Harry had been all too eager to assist, agreeing eagerly and plying her with coffee and ginger cakes to stay with him for a while and chat. 

She did stay, and it was lovely, though the more time she spent with Harry — whom she loved dearly, and was the closest person in the world to her — the more she felt heartsickness growing through her body like a poison. It was like slowly sinking into treacle; she was aware of what was happening, but by then it was too late to stop it. The feeling drove Hermione to make her excuses about wily cats at the cottage waiting to be fed far sooner than either she or Harry would’ve liked, but it meant that she could have the ensuing mild panic attack in the comfort of her own home. 

So: Draco would be arriving at 10 o’clock this morning, direct from Wiltshire into her living room thanks to the comb Portkey she’d delivered to him via Harry’s owl. Assuming he hadn’t thought better of this mad idea. Assuming he hadn’t been placating Hermione just to get her out of his house. 

Rather than waiting and worrying, Hermione stoked the fire until the cottage was comfortably warm, so warm in fact that she had to briefly crack two windows to rebalance the heat. The cinnamon rolls had gone into the oven and were already beginning to puff and brown, sending the smell of yeast and sugar wafting through the house.

Nova and Clementine were fed and dozing sweetly under the tree Hermione had cut down and brought inside, charmed to have what looked like hundreds of twinkling, shimmering silver lights strewn among its branches. It was small, but stood elegantly between two bookshelves on a low table she’d conjured to place it on. The little brown paper parcel sat beneath its branches. 

She’d already given the cats their presents — two jumpers that looked impossibly, magically like a starry night sky, which Hermione had knitted and charmed herself. She’d done it in her bedroom with the door closed; she knew it was silly, but she didn’t want to ruin the surprise for them. Clemmie hated hers and refused to wear it even for a moment. Nova, perhaps in a nod to her namesake, was still curled up quite happily in hers, her back transformed into an expanse of glimmering stars. 

Hermione had a few presents herself that had been waiting under the tree, which she opened early — as much for a distraction as so she wouldn’t be doing it in front of Draco. 

Ginny had sent a beautiful wall clock, reminiscent of the one in her mother’s kitchen, though far more elegant. It looked for the most part like a normal clock, though it had a small rotating ticker down between the 4 and 5 marks that currently said only _HOME_. The letter Ginny sent along with it indicated this was a tracker for Harry. 

Ginny was with Blaise now, engaged and over the moon about it, but she and Hermione both still worried about Harry in a deep and protective way that would never leave either of them. Ginny was maybe the only person who knew and fully understood that Hermione was gone not because she didn’t love her friends, but because she loved them too much to stay. 

It was an incredibly kind gift. Hermione hung it in a place of honor, just above the wood stove and next to a photo of herself at six years old, stood on the prow of a ferry between her two smiling parents. Usually, she couldn’t look at the photo directly, but she liked knowing it was there. Today, she allowed herself a moment to stroke her father’s face, press a kiss to her mother’s beautiful blue sundress.

Harry himself sent too many things, though Hermione loved them all. He’d remembered at least six of the new books Hermione had mentioned looking forward to reading across various letters between them, and bought all of them for her, signed by their authors. Perk of being the Chosen One. He included two catnip cat toys, which Hermione could sense had some kind of magic applied to them — she had a hunch Harry had bought them in a muggle pet store, then charmed them to look like little otters. Lastly, he’d sent a gorgeous enamel pin that at first glance looked like a Yin and Yang, but on closer inspection was two small cats, curled together. She smiled sappily at it and pinned it to her dark green jumper. 

Clementine had been significantly more interested in the otters than her Christmas sweater, and was sleeping so soundly now thanks in part to a wild half hour of early morning catnip romp. Hermione had almost hurt herself laughing over the pair of them, two jesters high out of their little minds and quite literally climbing the walls.

And now, it was twelve minutes to ten o’clock, and Hermione felt her hands trembling. As if she hadn’t fought in a war. As if she hadn’t once hit Draco Malfoy for his insolence. As if she hadn’t invited him here herself. As if she hadn't been desperately hoping he’d come.

She supposed the tremors had more to do with the fact that she didn’t want to punch his beautiful face anymore. Not even a little bit.

***

Draco arrived into the cottage with a noise that sent both cats up and running with no regard for where they were headed, leading the two of them directly into the long, black-clad legs of Draco himself. He barely maintained his balance as the two became tangled with him, and then each other, and then disappeared under the edge of the couch to sort themselves out in shame.

Hermione watched from the little hall that connected the three rooms in the back of the house, one hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Draco looked around himself, gazing out one window to the snowy trees for a long moment as he silently got his bearings, before his eyes landed on hers. 

Something crossed Draco’s face as he looked at her, and he produced a small smile that nonetheless made Hermione’s heart pound. She wondered if he was as surprised and pleased to actually see him in her home as she was. 

“Hi, Draco,” she said, because she had to start somewhere. “Welcome to, er, extremely northern England. I’m so pleased you came.”

If he was taken aback by her warmth, he didn’t show it. He just bowed his head towards her, before looking curiously around the room again. “Thank you for inviting me, Granger. This is for you.” He handed her an elegant bottle of wine with a heavy matte label that only said _Soleil_ in silver ink. It looked old and expensive, and had a charming bow tied around the neck.

“Thank you,” Hermione said, looking up from the wine to see Draco still avidly surveying her sitting room. Hermione felt suddenly like she was seeing her home through his eyes, and she wasn’t sure if she should be embarrassed. She didn’t think so, but — 

“Funny that my whole house could fit in your foyer with plenty of space left over. I know it’s nothing impressive.” She laughed a little as she moved towards him, intent on being a good host, even as she prickled at the thought of his judgement.

“I like it.” Draco’s eyes were serious when he turned to look at her, and she believed him. 

“Can I take your coat?” Hermione asked. She had never seen him in muggle clothes before, only robes, but there was no doubt his long black wool coat was muggle, and it appeared he was wearing black _jeans_ underneath. A mystery for a later time. He unbuttoned and shrugged out of the coat, thanked her, and handed it to her. He began wandering around her sitting room as she went to hang the garment on the hooks on the back of her bedroom door and set the wine in the kitchen for later. She paused for a moment at the sink, just long enough to take two deep breaths.

“Coffee?” she called from the kitchen doorway. Draco didn’t answer, so she poked her head back out into the sitting room, only to be confronted by a sight that stopped her heart for a moment: Draco Malfoy, cross-legged on her floor, two cats fighting each other for the prime lap real estate he presented. It was like _Titanic_ in there, with clearly enough room for two cats on the lap-raft, but the pathos and drama of pretending otherwise making for a better story. Evidently, _they_ weren’t concerned about having company, even company who arrived and disturbed them from their sleep.

Hermione watched for a moment, entranced, as Draco buried his long, lovely fingers in the cats’ fur. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he saw her standing there. 

Hermione crouched down beside him, until the four of them were contained in a small, warm, good-smelling bubble of peace. “This is Clementine. Clemmie,” she said, running her hand down Clementine’s orange back. “And this is Nova.” Nova raised her head at the sound of her name, gave Hermione’s hand an affectionate lick. 

“What happened to the half-kneazle?” Draco asked. “These aren’t magical cats.”

“They’re not,” Hermione agreed, though sometimes she wasn’t so sure about that. “I found them outside my door when I arrived here. I assume they’re sisters, though I have no way of knowing with any certainty. Just seemed clear that they belonged with me.” Her heart had squeezed painfully at the mention of Crookshanks, but after a moment she could breathe again and think about him without agony. “Crooks died several years back,” she explained softly. “Actually, while we were working together.” 

“I’m sorry,” Draco said, sounding sincere. “I know how you loved him. Was that why you left?”

Hermione rose to her feet abruptly. “One reason,” she said. No need to get into that all now. “Just a moment, I have to check on breakfast.” She made a hasty retreat to the kitchen to gather herself.

The cinnamon rolls looked incredible: golden brown and oozing with sticky goodness from every crevice. She pulled them from the oven to cool, carefully cutting around the edge of the pan to help them come out more easily later. Draco appeared around the corner of the kitchen, Nova perched smugly on his right shoulder. He was walking carefully, like he didn’t want to jostle her.

“What smells so good?” he asked. “And did I hear you mention coffee earlier?”

Hermione grinned. Maybe this was going to go better than she’d expected.

***

The day passed in a surprisingly comfortable blur. The edge of discomfort around Draco wore down as he drank steaming coffee; as he perused her bookshelves and made a small pile that he asked with some shyness if he could borrow; as he ate three rolls in a row and seemed genuinely gobsmacked by how delicious they were.

They played several rounds of exploding snap, which Draco won easily, and which Hermione was strangely happy to lose to him. She taught him Scrabble, and laughed to herself at the thought of the game creator’s fury upon Draco playing words like _Accio_ and _quaffle_ , landing an outrageous triple word score on the latter. She let him, because she still beat him handily, and for several other reasons she wasn’t yet ready to examine.

For dinner, they had a roast chicken with charred green beans and roasted garlic and thick slices of rosemary sourdough. Draco ate like a man starved, though she was certain the elf in his house was keeping him fed. They both got worked up by a conversation about the newest edition of _Hogwarts: A History_ with its controversial Forward, and the bottle Draco brought of what turned out to be very nice cabernet disappeared easily between them. 

After, Draco offered to do the washing up, and Hermione’s face must’ve belied her astonishment, because he laughed and informed her that he wasn’t entirely useless. “At least not anymore,” he said with a raise of his eyebrows. Hermione laughed again, surprised at how easily it came to her. 

“You were never _entirely_ useless, Draco,” she said.

“Thanks, Granger. I’m blushing.”

She stayed in the living room, humming to herself and adding several logs to the fire, listening to the gentle sounds of Draco doing the washing up and occasionally murmuring to the cats, who were likely trying to get in his way on the countertops.

She loved watching the light and heat play through the embers, could sometimes lose herself for an hour or two just watching them smolder and evolve.

Draco joined her on the couch after a while, groaning as he sank into the comfortable seat. The sun was long down, and the cottage felt so comfortable, so cozy, so surprisingly full of cheer. Hermione herself felt lightness inside of her, a buoyancy she didn’t recognize but was grateful for. Nova and Clementine, the little traitors, had attached themselves to Draco and followed him throughout the house wherever he went, their affection secured even more when he’d slipped them small pieces of roast chicken at dinner that Hermione pretended not to see. She did the same thing, most days.

Draco looked up from carefully smoothing his fingers through Clementine’s soft fur, and Hermione felt her heart in her throat, suddenly. It had been easy to move around each other today, easy to discuss potioneering theory and the new book Ollivander had put out recently on wand theory and lore, easy to just be near each other without having to go too much deeper. She had the sense suddenly that they were teetering on the precipice of that changing.

“Thank you for inviting me out here, Granger,” Draco said, his voice low and scraped through with emotion. “This has been the nicest Christmas I’ve had in a long time.”

“Me, too, Draco,” she said. Her heart was lodged somewhere in her windpipe. “I’m so glad you agreed to come. I thought you might kick me out on sight when I showed up at the Manor.”

“Did you really?” He seemed surprised, his pale eyebrows rising up his elegant forehead. “I rather thought, after the Ministry, that we were friends.” His cheeks pinked slightly.

“Yes,” Hermione agreed, almost too quickly. “Yes, we are. It’s just that I left so abruptly after your — internship, and we haven’t spoken since.” She’d sent her condolences when his mother passed, though neither of them acknowledged that now. She wasn’t even sure he’d have read it, nor could she blame him if he hadn’t. “I thought you might find it very strange of me to invite you to Christmas.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he smirked, “it was incredibly strange. But good strange. And to tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure I was going to survive another holiday alone at the Manor. It was a relief to have another option.”

Hermione recognized the pain in his voice all too well. “Me either,” she managed, so quietly it was almost a whisper. “I couldn’t be alone for another year. And I remembered how peaceful it was to spend time with you in the office when everyone else had left for the day. I thought, maybe, you might be looking for company just like I was.”

“You know, I was so ready to loathe my internship,” Draco said thoughtfully. “Particularly knowing I’d be working for you. But it turned out to be just what I needed in that time after the war. It gave me structure, and purpose, and you were so much kinder to me than you needed to be. I still don’t understand why they relegated you to such a shite position.”

Hermione felt her cheeks burn, lit from within by her own embers of embarrassment. “Actually, I requested it,” she said. Draco stared at her. “They wanted me to take a position just under the Minister. It didn’t seem fair for me to leapfrog over everyone else in line like that, just because of my name. Plus, mentally, I wasn’t well. I didn’t think I could take the stress.”

Draco’s mouth opened and closed several times. “So they relegated you to the Beasts division instead?”

“I asked for it.”

“Of course, I should’ve guessed.” Draco let out a rather undignified snort. “Bleeding heart Gryffindor.”

“I volunteered because I knew it was the position overseeing you, Draco.”

His shoulders stiffened. Several expressions raced across his face before he appeared to lock them away somewhere, his features suddenly blank. “What, you couldn’t pass up an opportunity to have power over me?”

Hermione felt the hurt like a dart to the chest. Did he really think she might do something like that?

“I’m sorry,” Draco said immediately. “Merlin, I’m sorry.” His face softened as he watched her. “I didn’t mean that.”

“You might have,” Hermione said back, “but it’s alright. Thank you for apologizing. It’s just — I took the position because I wanted you to be treated fairly, and I didn’t think anyone else would do that.”

Draco buried his face in his hands, his broad shoulders rounded protectively around his body. “I’m an arse,” he said, muffled between his fingers. “Such an arse.” He looked up at her. “Please, Hermione, know my apology is sincere. Your kindness kept me going for those months we worked together. I don’t know what stupidity I would’ve committed had I not been working for you, but I think it’s highly possible I would have long been dead or in a cell next to my father's had it not been for that.”

He looked so anxious, his face drawn, that Hermione couldn’t help but reach out and squeeze his shoulder. He melted a little under her touch.

“It was good for me too,” she admitted. “I was...struggling. My parents were gone, by my own doing, and the mind healers in Australia were sending monthly reports that there was no progress on bringing their memories back. They wanted me to give up, and eventually, I had no choice.” Her eyes filled with sudden tears, and she blinked them away until she could see Draco’s beautiful, concerned face again. 

“Working with you gave me something else to focus on, something to fight for. And then, just before the end of your internship, Crookshanks died. I came home to find him curled up on my pillow, cold.” This time, she did let out a small sob, and suddenly Draco was next to her, his arm around her. The weight was tentative, but became heavier and more comforting as she didn’t pull away and he leaned in further. 

“I knew things were coming to an end with you, and I didn’t know what I’d do after. I didn’t want to stay at the Ministry. I hated the way my friends looked at me like I was something fragile to be handled with care, not startled or spoken to too loudly. The last creature in the world who loved me and didn’t see me like that was gone, and I wanted to be, too.”

“So you came here,” Draco murmured. 

“So I came here,” Hermione agreed.

They sat silently for a minute longer, until Hermione shook herself and rose to retrieve the small brown paper parcel from under the tree. She set in on Draco’s knee, and he gazed up at her in surprise.

“It’s Christmas,” she said, smiling down at him. “You brought me fancy wine. You have to let me give you a present.”

Draco looked wordlessly down at the parcel, before he set to unwrapping it with shaking fingers. Inside was a small, tear-shaped vial, stopped up and containing a pearlescent substance somewhere between a liquid and gas that Draco clearly recognized instantly. He looked at her with a question in his gaze, and Hermione swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. This was the moment of truth. He would either be glad, or maybe he would leave her house and never speak to her again.

“Can I show you?” she asked. Draco hesitated, then nodded. 

Hermione led him into her bedroom, then opened the deceptively large bottom drawer of her bureau and pulled out a pensieve. It had been an expensive luxury, but one she afforded herself before leaving London so she could visit her parents, at least in memory. She had a small library of vials preserved for herself forever, so that she could go and see her parents in happier moments without time and human error eventually warping the memories. 

She propped the pensieve on top of the bureau, sat back on the thick duvet covering her bed and gestured for Draco to proceed. He took a deep breath, then unstopped the memory and poured it into the bowl, before bending over and plunging himself inside.

Two minutes and forty-six seconds later, he slowly straightened and stood. He didn’t look at Hermione. She gave him a moment to gather himself, staring forward out of the window into the dark winter night. He turned to her finally, then moved in three quick steps to sit down beside her on the bed, his legs a little unsteady. His face was pale.

“She loved you more than anything, Draco,” Hermione said, her voice barely above a whisper. 

Draco turned to her mechanically, his mouth just open like he was about to speak. Before he could make a sound, he was crying. Weeping, silently. 

“I’m sorry,” Hermione started, suddenly worried she’d crossed some incontrovertible line. It came out of her in a rush. “I’m so sorry, Draco. I just — this is how I feel close to my parents when I miss them so much I can’t bear it a second longer. Of course, you remember your mother, but I thought you might like to be able to visit her in the moment she risked everything for you. I’m sorry I overstepped. I promise I didn’t watch it myself.”

“Please,” Draco said, his voice breaking. “Please don’t apologize.”

Hermione felt her pulse settle, her heart rate starting to slow. She had cried like this many times after visiting her parents in a memory, especially in the beginning. She recognized the anguish in him now, though she felt real relief that it wasn’t directed at her.

She’d visited Harry for the Portkey, yes, but primarily for this: his memory of Narcissa Malfoy asking Harry if her son was alive, and lying to Voldemort when the answer was _yes_. Draco knew about the moment — of course he did — but Hermione assumed it was another thing entirely to be able to watch his mother’s face as she asked about him, to hear the desperation and love in her fierce whisper. 

In the silence that sat between them, Draco reached out and took Hermione’s left hand in his, squeezing tightly. “Thank you,” he whispered, then brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed the back of it so gently that Hermione wondered if she’d imagined it. That thought didn’t last long, because in the next breath, Draco had turned to her, put his other hand on her cheek. He looked at her, looked into her eyes, seemingly waiting for her to shrink and pull away. Hermione’s heartbeat fluttered in her throat. 

_Yes_ , she thought. _Yes_.

She hadn’t admitted to herself she’d been waiting for this very thing, but in this moment it felt almost like she was on the precipice of the puzzle of her life fitting back together again. Being pieced together into something new.

And then, Draco leaned forward to kiss her, and she stopped thinking entirely. 

It still seemed like he’d been expecting some hesitation on her part, even resistance, but Hermione didn’t give it to him. Instead, she met him full force, her hands rising to the nape of his neck and to tangle in his hair as she pressed herself against his surprisingly plush mouth. She opened herself to him, shivered as the edge of his tongue met and slid a little against hers. 

They lost themselves in each other quickly. Draco’s big hands kept her face close to his, moved her gently so that he could pause to plant tiny kisses across her cheekbones, nip at her earlobe. She swept her tongue against his gums and pressed herself against him when he quietly groaned into her mouth at the sensation. 

Hermione was suddenly tired of the space left between them, hungry to be as close to him as possible; the feel of his body’s heat had an almost drugging effect, but she had enough clarity still to somewhat smoothly wrangle herself up and into straddling his lap as they continued exploring each other’s mouths. 

Draco made a quiet, strangled noise as she landed on top of him, his hands moving to her back, her hips, her thighs, sweeping over her hungrily. Hermione squirmed under his touch, which had the delicious effect of driving Draco mad beneath her. He broke away from her mouth to catch his breath and stare at her, his hands gripping either side of her hips and keeping her anchored to him. Her position on his lap meant that she had a brief height advantage, and their gazes met almost on a level. 

He looked beautiful, and vulnerable. His cheeks were slightly pink, giving the planes of his angular face a boyish, healthy look. Hermione was rather pleased with herself for being the cause of that. She smiled at him, raising one hand from where it had been tangled in the soft expanse of his sweater to run her thumb against his flushed lower lip. He bit at it softly, making her laugh.

And then his hands were at the hem of her jumper and sliding underneath, and Hermione arched her back and sighed at the skin on skin contact. She pressed herself harder into Draco, ignoring the twinge in her knees in favor of grinding against the now undeniable ridge of his cock in his pants. 

She felt lush under his gaze, blooming, dangerously eager to continue opening herself up to him and handing him all the pieces of herself inside to hold in his big warm hands.

Draco leaned backwards suddenly, wrapping his arms around Hermione to pull her down with him until he was flat on the bed, his pale head framed by the bright greens and blues of her heavy duvet. They stayed like that for a moment, Hermione pressed against his chest and both of them catching their breath. Just breathing together.

Draco’s voice rumbled through his chest when he spoke, pressed against Hermione’s ear. “I think I’ve wanted to do that for years.” 

Snug against Draco’s chest where he couldn’t see her face, Hermione grinned. She knew just how he felt. She considered pretending otherwise, just for the sake of getting him to say more, but that didn’t feel fair. Plus, her only real priority now was more kisses.

“Me, too, Draco,” she said, barely louder than a whisper. 

He rolled them both, Hermione landing with a laugh flat against the bed, her calves still hanging off the side where they’d been sitting. Draco managed to get his knees under him, so he was crouched above her, his eyes roaming over her face, the hollow of her throat, the soft topography of her breasts and hips and the swell of her belly visible to him under her jumper. 

He ducked his head to bite at Hermione’s throat, just below her left ear, firmly enough to make heat shoot through her and a low, animal noise escape her mouth. Draco lathed his tongue across the spot to soothe the sting. He raised his head to her ear, his other hand cradling her head from below to hold her in place as he whispered. 

“You’re the best gift I’ve ever gotten, Granger.”

Hermione felt the hot rush of tears rise through her at the raw edge in his voice, but she swallowed them down in time for him to pull back and look at her. 

“I’m so glad you came,” she said around the lump in her throat. “This may sound strange, but I think I’ve missed your company.”

Something heated and promising swam through the grey slate of Draco’s gaze, and then he was on her again, his mouth everywhere. She felt him slip her jumper off of one shoulder, bite tenderly at the muscle there until she was shuddering underneath him. She ran her hands up and under his sweater, his back warm and soft under her fingers even as the hard planes of his muscles slid and shifted beneath her palms. She thrilled at the sensation, struggling to keep up as Draco touched her everywhere he could manage access to.

He stripped her out of her top so smoothly that Hermione didn’t fully process what was happening until the air of her bedroom, significantly cooler than the cozy front room, hit her skin where Draco wasn’t pressed against her. She shivered. Draco managed to smoothly maneuver them back onto the bed more fully, propping Hermione’s head against a pillow as he reverently took in the sight of her almost-bare torso beneath him. 

His fingers played gently, almost absently at the hem of her jeans, though Hermione was torturously aware of every movement. His other hand came up to caress her breasts, two fingers sliding underneath the cup of her bra and over her nipple before drawing the fabric back far enough that he could suck at the revealed skin with the dangerously lush heat of his mouth.

Draco finished undressing her with a tenderness and reverence that offset the slight tremble of his hands. He returned to kissing her every few moments with a fierceness that suggested he felt he had something to lose. Before she could even fully consider it, Hermione was naked on the bed, Draco still fully clothed and perched on top of her. There was something incredibly hot about being stripped bare and vulnerable in front of him like this.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, his hands warming her as he traced a constant path over her skin, which was flushed red in patches, belying her arousal. He was sitting over her, one leg on either side of her hips as he drank her in. “Gorgeous doesn’t cover it, actually. Stunning. Perfect. Too good to be true.” He punctured each word by bending down and licking, biting, sucking his way across Hermione’s breasts.

She could feel every word he murmured in her clenching cunt, and was grateful he couldn’t see just how much he affected her. But then —

“Where are you going?” she panted, sitting up on her elbows a little to see better as Draco pulled away from her. He grinned lasciviously up at her, slinking his way down her body until he was able to position himself between her legs. “Oh, you little snake,” she laughed, as he wriggled to get comfortable and dragged his tongue up the inside of one thigh. 

She’d been startled to see him move, and a little embarrassed to be so open in front of him, but the trick with his tongue made her forget herself. She sighed, and her legs fell open to Draco between them.

She watched, her cheeks burning, as Draco leaned close and took a deep breath. “Bloody delectable,” he said, nearly hissing, and before she could process the moment and slam her legs back closed, he was on her. 

“Oh, Merlin,” Hermione said faintly. Her head fell back onto the pillows, though the conscious part of her brain wanted to stay up and watch him. The sensations were too intense to focus on anything else. Draco alternated between short, intense attention to her clit with the tip of his tongue — so visceral it was almost too much to stand — and long, slow licks with the flat of his tongue all the way from where her cunt was dripping against the bed up to her clit and the sensitive skin around it, making her shiver and squirm away from him. 

“Be _still_ ,” he chided her, a hint of laughter in his voice, and Hermione gasped as his arms circled around the tops of her thighs to hold her firmly against the bed, open to him.

“You arse,” Hermione panted as her hips twisted futilely again in an attempt to get away from the overwhelming pleasure of Draco’s mouth. Secretly, she was glad he was keeping her down, making her take all of the sensations. 

“Always have been,” Draco said from between her legs, sounding smug. “You know that better than anyone.”

And then, with no warning whatsoever, Draco shifted until he could fuck his tongue into her, the muscle slick and hot and intoxicating as it slid inside of her. At the same time, the hand holding her left hip down shifted forward until he could slide his thumb against the swollen nucleus of her clit. 

Hermione, stretched out and writhing with pleasure, exploded.

There was no other word for it: everything in her contracted to a tiny pinprick of light, and then erupted outwards in a tidal outpour of ecstasy. Her muscles seized as she thrashed, her head whipping back and forth on the pillow. She was gasping, her breath coming hard and fast as she slurred Draco’s name, told him how good it felt, told him he was making her come, told him to hold her harder, to keep going. Her whole body shook with tremors as he crested her seamlessly into and over the edge of a second orgasm — or maybe just a continuation of the first one — sweeter and looser than its predecessor.

She collapsed back against the bed, her legs falling open from where they’d trapped Draco’s head between them. He rose up on his knees, his eyes roving between Hermione’s still exposed and now dripping pussy, her heaving chest, and her face. He reached one hand forward like he couldn’t help himself and slid the two middle fingers inside of her, his eyes darkening as he watched them sink easily into her. Hermione stared at the slick coating his face and cheeks and tried to bring herself to be embarrassed.

“Are you going to stay in those clothes all night?” she asked after a moment, hauling herself back up to her elbows to gaze at him. “Not to sound ungrateful, but I am feeling a little cheated.”

Draco looked down at himself with some surprise, like he hadn’t been able to think beyond Hermione long enough to even realize that he was still fully dressed. 

He turned his gaze back to Hermione, his fingers still pressing inside of her and a sly glint in his eyes. She watched him mouth a silent word, and then all of his clothes were just _gone_ , reappearing in an instant folded on the bureau next to the abandoned pensieve. 

Hermione gawked. Every part of Draco was astonishing. His body was lean, but solidly muscled. The expanse of his skin was pale, his torso covered with bright white scars that only seemed to enhance his almost otherworldly beauty. He seemed unconcerned and unembarrassed as he sat in front of Hermione, watching her watching him. Her eyes roved over him, lighting briefly on the mangled skin of his left forearm, the dark mark almost unrecognizable beneath. She had seen it once before at the Ministry, when Draco had shown her late one night over a pile of paperwork and Etheopian takeout. Hermione didn’t know exactly how it had happened, but she knew Draco was responsible for its disfigurement.

Her eyes were drawn down into Draco’s lap, and she almost laughed at the absurdity. Of course Draco Malfoy had a gorgeous cock. Of course he did. It was lovely and thick, clearly hard as it rose a little above his strong thighs, glistening at the tip. It was at least nice to know he was feeling as affected by this all as she was. The size of him made her swallow, throat suddenly dry.

Hermione was brought out of her reverie by Draco curling his fingers inside of her. She gasped, then bit her lip. Draco was staring at her, refusing to look away, and Hermione rose to the challenge. She met his gaze, her bottom lip slipping out from underneath her teeth and her mouth falling open as he worked her toward an inevitable end once again.

“Draco,” she said. Her voice dragged out from somewhere deep inside of her. “Please.”

He smirked, and she felt with sudden certainty that he was not going to make this so easy. “Please _what_ , Hermione?”

“Are you really going to make me say it?”

“Are you telling me you can’t?”

She glared, huffing out a breath as much in annoyance that he had stopped pressing his fingers against the most sensitive place inside of her as that he was going to make her do this out loud.

Hermione had never backed down from a challenge by Draco Malfoy, and she certainly wasn’t going to start now. He knew it too, the bastard.

Eyes still narrowed, Hermione took a deep breath. “I want you inside of me. I want you to fuck me. I want to know what your cock feels like. _Please_.” Draco’s face had gone slack as he watched her speak, and his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip as she fluttered her eyelashes at him for emphasis.

He was still for another few beats. “Sorry,” he said at last. “Sorry. That was just — the hottest thing I’ve ever personally witnessed. Needed a moment to process.”

Hermione grinned. She couldn’t believe how comfortable and confident she felt with Draco like this. She was blooming in front of him. The way he looked at her made her feel beautiful and powerful in equal measure.

“Come here,” she said softly. Draco did.

He kissed her so softly as he arranged himself between the spread of her legs, distracting her from how big the head of his cock felt as he pressed up against her. He nibbled her lip, flicked his tongue behind her teeth, pulled back to look at her. She gazed up at him, breathing hard. “Draco,” she said.

Draco closed his eyes and groaned, a low sound from deep in his belly. He opened them again to look down between their bodies, to witness it as he slowly pushed his cock inside of her.

Hermione focused on relaxing, breathing as slowly and deeply as she could around the stretch. Holding himself up on one arm, Draco slipped his first two fingers into Hermione’s mouth, pressing them down against her tongue. She sucked eagerly. Draco’s eyes were molten as he watched her cheeks hollow, and then with one slow and powerful roll of his hips, he was seated fully inside of her.

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Hermione experimentally squeezed the muscles surrounding his cock and tilted her hips to meet him. They could both feel immediately and intimately how deeply he was pressed into her. “Fuck,” Draco hissed as he slowly pulled out and eased his way back in. “Fuck. You’re perfect. Fuck.”

He pulled his hand from her mouth to lean forward and brace more fully against the bed again as he began fucking her in earnest. His measured, powerful thrusts sent Hermione spiraling into outer space. Draco kept making raw noises of pleasure in between marveling openly and vocally over her: her body, the velvet clutch of her cunt, the way she looked below him, how he couldn’t believe she was real.

He fucked her like that until she was gasping on the edge, then pulled out all at once. She gasped, feeling empty and unsatisfied as the thrum of her orgasm slid back out of reach. 

“Shh,” Draco soothed as she frowned and opened her mouth to chide him. “Let me take my time with you. We can do hard and fast later.” He guided her onto her side, then arranged himself behind her until he was spooning her against him. Hermione sighed and leaned back into the comforting feel of his body, her breath hitching as he gently raised her top leg and pushed himself back into her. 

The angle was insane, and Hermione immediately forgot her grievances about him stopping. This was good. This was all she ever wanted.

The feel of Draco was everywhere, all around her. His smell, his arms, his presence behind her, his words blanketing her in heat. His cock, hard and hot inside of her body.

Draco held her like that for a long while, fucking her steadily, shifting her by increments so the angle always felt new and electric. The arm underneath her switched between caressing her breasts, tugging hard at her hard nipples, and gently holding her throat with the broad stretch of his palm. 

His other hand, relentless in its exploration between her legs, proceeded to make Hermione come hard no fewer than three times over the following ten minutes, though Hermione was paying exactly zero attention to the ticking of her clock on the wall.

Every time she came, Draco groaned into her hair, fucking himself as deep into her as he could go and holding himself there as she spasmed and shook around his cock. He’d rise up and pull her head back towards him enough to kiss her deeply as she squirmed against him, sometimes stilling so they were just breathing into each other, their lips barely sliding together.

As her fourth orgasm in a row trembled on the horizon, Hermione twisted and wrapped her arm around Draco’s head so she could hold him and look at him, even as his hips still cradled hers from behind. Her fingers slipped through his fine hair, though she could feel a fine layer of sweat under her fingers. His control so far had been impeccable, and his focus on her pleasure unmatched. 

She wanted him to lose himself in her. 

“Are you close?” she murmured.

“I think I’ve been close since the first time I kissed you,” he breathed back.

“You’re going to make me come again,” Hermione said in a rush. “I want you to come with me.”

“Inside?” Draco’s voice was hesitant, disbelieving.

Hermione nodded, taking her hand away from Draco’s head only to grab her wand from the bedside table, point it at her stomach, and incant the contraceptive charm. She put the wand back and twisted her head to look at Draco.

“Inside,” she confirmed.

He made a wounded sound, then gathered Hermione as close to his body as he could. It made it tough to breathe fully, but she didn’t mind. Draco curled around her, planted one leg on the bed for leverage, and then he was fucking her, hard. His fingers curled around Hermione’s thigh as he raised it slightly for better access, gripping her so tightly that her flesh sprang up between the spread of his fingers. The sight of it was incredibly erotic as Hermione stared down the length of her body. 

She reached down to feel her swollen clit, only touching it gently as her orgasm hurtled towards her. Draco dropped her leg and knocked her fingers away, replacing them with his own and matching the pace of his cock from behind.

A moment of suspension, everything clenched —

Draco let out a snarl as he came, pulling Hermione hard against him as his cock started pulsing inside of her. She could feel it twitch, and that sensation paired with his unrelenting fingers sent her spiraling into orgasm. She ripped free of gravity, soaring, every muscle in her body tensing and releasing in rapid succession as pleasure rushed through her in waves.

Draco held her to him through it all, caging her into his body, groaning into her ear. 

Slowly, so slowly, they relaxed back into each other and the bed, breathing heavily.

A loud _CRASH_ from the sitting room made them both jump, Draco starting badly and almost slipping out of her. He laughed a little hysterically as he flopped his torso back onto the bed. 

“Totally forgot there are cats out there,” he said, throwing one arm over his head.

“Demons, actually,” Hermione said. “I seriously don’t want to know what they just broke.”

She didn’t like Draco’s cock pulling out of her, but the desire to turn and snuggle against him so that she could see his face was stronger than anything else. She maneuvered herself until she was on her other side, pressed against him, and he rolled his head sideways to grin lazily at her.

“I was thinking,” Hermione said, her voice catching a little. She traced one finger around Draco’s nipple and didn’t meet his eyes. “Maybe you’d like to spend the night out here. Or, not just tonight. Maybe, if you’d like, you could spend more nights here. With me.”

Draco laughed softly, incredulously, and she dragged her gaze back to him. “If it weren’t for Nipsy and my things,” he said, “I’d be happy never to go back to the Manor again. With one exception: I’d like to show you my library.” Hermione beamed. “Otherwise, I’d rather be here in the woods with you than rattling around my empty childhood home any night of the week. I’ve felt better today than I can remember, maybe ever. Is that too much? Am I going to make you regret your offer?”

“No,” Hermione said. “That’s good. It’s settled. You'll stay here with me. Though I would like to see that library.” She felt oddly certain, and emboldened by his surprisingly enthusiastic response to her suggestion. “I think you’re exactly what I’ve been missing. I think I want as many nights with you as you’ll give me. ”

Draco gazed at her steadily. She couldn’t tell exactly what he was thinking, but she liked the idea that she might find out. 

“Like Christmas every day,” he said, and kissed her.


End file.
